The Fine Line (Between Professional and Personal)
by theredspool
Summary: Avengers AU: Steve and Natasha go undercover as husband and wife. Clint lets his emotions run the show.
1. Business As Usual

Author's Note: I started this fiction over on livejournal last summer based on a gifset and some hearty pleas from the awesome fans over at ontd_assemble. I've very rudely let it trail off, so I'm posting it here as motivation to keep updating. Read, review, and enjoy!

* * *

It was business as usual for Natasha-read the file, memorize the information, start the mission.

It was relatively simple. The typical undercover gig: assumed identity, a short-term stay in some new city with a partner watching her back.

Fury had asked her to introduce Rogers to spy work, and it seemed he intended to throw him into the deep end, head-first-Rogers was to accompany her, acting as her husband.

It wasn't a hard job-she could handle working and training simultaneously-but she couldn't imagine Rogers _acting_. He was so honest and wholesome. It was precious and sort of quaint, in Natasha's opinion, but he was hardly spy material. He was a soldier though-and-through.

Like Clint.

Well. Maybe she could work with that.

She skimmed the folder a second time and glanced up at Captain Rogers. His brow was furrowed as he read; he looked serious and concerned and earnest as hell. He looked up at Fury, who glared back expectantly. "Question, Captain?"

"Well, Sir," Rogers began nervously, and Natasha could see the blush rising in his cheeks already. "If Miss-_Agent_ Romanoff and I are supposed to be a married couple...does that mean we're meant to share a house? And...a bed?"

"Cap, behind closed doors I'm sure you can have your own bed," Fury said sardonically. "But yes, you will be living with Agent Romanoff for the duration of the mission."

Rogers looked uncomfortable. He glanced at Natasha. "Agent Romanoff, um, I don't want you to feel compromised in your, uh, modesty. If we share quarters, I mean." He stopped, looking unsure of how to proceed.

Only Natasha's extensive spy training could maintain her (rather impressive) poker face in this moment. "Captain Rogers. This is hardly my first rodeo. And please," She put a hand on his wrist and looked straight into his eyes. "My modesty is definitely not a concern. Although I appreciate your respect for my personal space and comfort." She did mean it-it was nice to be treated like a lady now and again, rather than a sexless agent or a femme fatale.

He blushed (predictably) and nodded, smiling sheepishly. Natasha wondered briefly if he was a virgin, or if it was just his old-school values that made him uncomfortable with the idea of living with a woman he's not married to. _Both, probably_, her mind supplied.

They returned the files to Fury and Captain Rogers paused to open the door for Natasha. In the hall, she could feel him behind her, clearly working his nerve up to say something.

"Miss R-Agent Romanoff," He started nervously. "I mean no disrespect to you in the least-you're a beautiful and capable lady," She could practically _hear _him wince-clearly he had wanted to say something less personal. "But I have to tell you. I never really planned on living with a woman who wasn't my wife, and..." The end hung there lamely, full of uncertainty and discomfort at how his antiquated (if well-meant) values fit into this twenty-first century world.

Natasha paused with her back to him and felt him tense behind her. She almost felt guilty; she hadn't dug him out of the ice and reanimated him personally, of course, but she couldn't help but feel bad at the sheer culture shock and disorientation Rogers must be feeling. _Not to mention the fact that everyone he's ever loved is much I can sympathize with._

"Well, Captain," She said as she strode away. "You have nothing to worry about. As of next Tuesday at oh-six-hundred hours, I _am_ your wife."


	2. Mr and Mrs

I can't believe all of the activity this story has already incited! Thank you for all the favorites and follows. You're in luck-I already have about five more chapters of this story on reserve, so you won't be waiting too long for those updates. Enjoy, and don't forget to review!

* * *

Clint was waiting for her in the training center. "What's on the schedule, Nat?" He was already decked out for a sparring session.

"You know I can't tell you that, Clint," Natasha said seriously.

They held each others' gaze for a moment, then smiled broadly. They didn't _really_ keep things from each other-not since Budapest. Plus, Clint had high-security clearance. It was a basic mission, hardly cause for secrecy.

Natasha stretched deeply on the mats, rolling out the tension in her shoulders. "It's nothing really. Fury has me training Captain Rogers for SHIELD agenthood. We'll be undercover for about two weeks in Chicago as newlyweds. Basic stuff."

She saw Clint pause in his own warm-up. "Rogers and you? On a mission?"

"I know, I was thinking the same thing. I don't really think the Captain is cut out to be a covert _anything_, but an assignment is an assignment, and you know how Fury gets when anyone questions him."

Clint hummed noncommittally and cracked his knuckles.

"Oh, it was the sweetest thing-he got all nervous and gentlemanly about our sharing an apartment during the mission. I feel like I'll scare the poor guy just by being in the same ten foot radius!" She laughed and bent over to feel the familiar stretch in her hamstrings. "Twenty bucks says he'll start knocking before he comes into the _kitchen._" She flipped her head up, grinning, but Clint looked stern. "What? You look mad."

Clint's face relaxed slightly. "Nothing," he got into fighting stance and smirked. "That's my resting face. Ready?"

~

"Now, the flight leaves in forty minutes," Agent Hill handed them the tickets. "I'm sure that you're all very familiar with your assignment and your cover story."

Natasha nodded brusquely. Rogers gulped.

Agent Hill smiled at Rogers. "Not to worry, Captain Rogers. You're working with one of our top operatives. This is all very routine recon-I expect you'll even have some fun! All set?"

Natasha nodded again and Agent Hill opened the door to the SUV, letting the sunlight stream in. "Good luck Agents. We'll expect your communication later on."

They emerged from the dark car with their luggage looking decidedly un-Agentlike: Natasha had dyed her signature red hair a common brown. Rogers' hair was shorter and untidy...and he was wearing _cargo shorts_.

"Are you sure it's normal to be showing my legs?" Rogers looked down, shifting from foot to foot.

"Captain," Natasha looked up at the list of departing flights. "You wear a skintight suit to fight crime. I really didn't expect shorts to be a problem for you." She glanced back and lifted an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at her lips. Rogers blushed.

They got through security easily enough; Natasha noticed the young TSA officer smiling shyly at an oblivious Captain Rogers. _He's hopeless,_ she shook her head and smiled, offering her ticket and her new identification.

~

The flight was brief, but Captain Rogers could (ironically) sleep anywhere and did so despite his apparent nerves.

When they landed, a car was already waiting for them in the long-term parking lot. Natasha produced the keys from her purse and got in the driver's seat. "I suppose we're going to have to teach you to drive next, Captain."

"I know how to drive," he looked slightly annoyed. "At least, I knew back then."

Natasha glanced sideways at him as she pulled out of the space. He was staring at his hands and looking pained. She put the brake on and put a hand on his shoulder. He looked up into her face-his stare was direct, but not unkind.

"Ready to go home, Mister Walker?" she joked, patting his arm and turning back to the wheel.

She saw him smile a little and lean back into the seat. "As ready as I'll ever be...Mrs. Walker."


	3. El Diablo

Hi everyone! I am so tickled by the amount of positive attention and reviews this story has gotten in just one day! I'm really pleased you're enjoying the story. I hope future chapters won't disappoint! Keep reading and reviewing-your feedback is wonderful!

-theredspool

* * *

The apartment was decked out-it was well-situated in a nice-but-not-suspiciously-nice neighborhood. It had wide windows, wood floors, and a rooftop deck, and the false bottoms in the coffee table and the back of the wardrobe held as many good firearms as they could have hoped for.

Captain Rogers was sitting on the window ledge and looking out at the city as Natasha unpacked her things. They sat in silence for a half an hour, Natasha looking up at him every so often as she hung clothes in the wardrobe. Finally, she broke the silence: "How's the view?'

He glanced back at her and smiled wanly. "Different," he shrugged. "I admit, I've never been to Chicago before today, but I can see how different it must be since anyone I would've known lived here."

"Yes, it is. I've seen a few photos from back then. The buildings are a bit taller these days," She said lightly, smiling.

He smiled back. "Yeah, just a little bit." He stared at her for a moment. "I like your hair brown."

Natasha wasn't expecting this. She reminded herself not to preen. "Do you? Thanks...I've always thought I looked too pale with my hair dark."

"No. It's pretty. You remind me of a lady I knew." She knew who he meant, and was pleased that he said it without any bitterness or anger. "Not just because of the hair, of course, but the resemblance is closer now." He rose from the ledge and swung his suitcase onto the bed, sliding the zippers open. "So, we're married. You're Ellie."

"And you're Alex," Natasha confirmed. "But you don't have to call me that here. You don't have to call me 'Agent Romanoff' or "Ma'am", either. Natasha is fine."

"Thanks...Natasha," He weighed her name on his tongue. "And, please, you can call me Steve. Just Steve. Hearing people call me 'Captain' or 'Agent' is kind of odd anyway-I feel like I'm back on stage, playing a part."

"Well, that's good! That's exactly what we have to do here."

"That's a good point," He smiled again, looking boyish. "I have to admit, this is all incredibly new to me. I mean, I've done covert operations before, but it was search-and-rescue, and it was to find my best friend. I had the determination rolling behind me like a freight train." He laughed affectionately, like he was looking at the face of someone familiar. "Not like this-this is all so delicate. And I've never been graceful, Natasha."

She can see now why he was such a hit back in his heyday. Sure, Natasha had seen the films, but she hadn't sensed the innate charm of self-deprecation in the gritty film reel. He was sweet and genuine, and the reason he had been so effective was because he truly meant every word he said-the spirit of them, at least. He was easy to trust.

Natasha was not the kind of person to trust easily, but Steve was like a child in many ways. Everything was new; he had no room for dishonesty or double-crossing in himself. Perhaps that was why Fury had placed them together. _Sneaky bastard, _she smirked.

"Hey, what's so funny?" He looked mock-offended. "Not all of us can be prima ballerinas!"

"You asked around about me?" Natasha cocked an eyebrow and gave him a penetrating look. He looked away quickly.

"Not exactly. I just read a little bit of your background. I figured I should know more about you if we're supposed to be close enough to be married." He looked back at her and shrugged. "I suppose you knew everything about me before they even chipped me out of that ice, huh?"

She ignored that. It was true, but that wasn't the way to encourage closeness with a fellow agent. "I didn't dance long enough to be a true ballerina. I was off the pro-level track by puberty, for obvious reasons." She raised her eyebrows and smiled inwardly when Steve glanced down at her chest and looked down immediately.

"I like ballet. Bucky always made fun of me for it, but my mom and I would go before she passed on," He folded his clothes very tidily, Natasha noticed. Almost reverently. "It's something you can get lost in, because there aren't any words to follow. It's all motion and music. Sometimes I would draw the students at the local dance school when I was a kid. Good practice. Helps you loosen up."

Natasha didn't know this part, which surprised her. "You draw?"

"Yeah," He didn't look sheepish or arrogant-it was matter-of-fact. "I was always pretty good at it, but when the war came around I felt sort of stupid sitting around drawing pictures while people were dying, y'know?"

"Sure." She sat on the bed and leaned back on her elbows. "So, do you want the bed or the couch?"

Steve looked taken aback. "Of course I'll take the couch! That will be more than comfortable enough for me. The bed's all yours."

"You sure? We can switch off, if you like." She could already tell that the couch was far too narrow for him, but she knew he was too gentlemanly to say so.

"No, seriously. The couch is just fine. Plus, I've slept much worse places."

"So have I," she replied. "But I'll let you be the gentleman this time. Are you hungry? You must be."

"Starving," Steve admitted. "Do you know anyplace good around here?"

"I've only been in Chicago a couple of times, but I'm sure there's somewhere that delivers. What do you like?"

"Are you nervous for tomorrow?" Natasha asked as she polished off the rest of her egg roll. Steve had eaten an entire quart of Lo Mein and a plate of General Tso's chicken (Natasha had ordered for him, and was pleased that he'd liked it so much). "If you are, it definitely isn't affecting your appetite," she teased.

"Ha-ha," Steve rolled his eyes. "Nothing affects my appetite anymore-the serum made that pretty impossible."

"Most people would kill for your metabolism," Natasha drew her knees up to her chest. They had watched some old movie on cable. Natasha hadn't known it (although she recognized Jimmy Stewart*), but Steve seemed to enjoy it a lot. ("You know, I saw this movie in the theater," he'd pointed out, gesturing with his fork-he couldn't get a handle on the chopsticks, even after an extended lesson from Natasha. He looked proud, which was a change. Steve was usually retiring about his connection to the past.)

"Yeah, I'm sure they would," Steve sounded like he'd heard it a million times before. He paused, reflecting at the plate in his lap. "I'm a little nervous. I know what to do, but I just don't want to let anyone down."

Natasha tilted her head. "That's not unreasonable. No one wants to disappoint people. But you know what you're doing-just because you're more used to open battle doesn't mean you can't try something different."

"That's true. After all, you went from ballet to spying yourself!" He smiled, but Natasha didn't. The ballet had been part of the training. _Вы должны двигаться, как ветер в деревьях,_ he had said. Like the wind-silent and capable of moving through any space or obstacle. It had been like a bad kung-fu movie, hadn't it? Except the enemy was the people who made her. "I'm sorry, did I say something wrong?"

Natasha met Steve's eyes; he looked apprehensive. "Oh," she relaxed her face into an easy smile-the first thing you learn to fake in this line of work. "No, definitely not. I think I'm just going into a little bit of a food coma!"

"A _what_?!" Steve looked alarmed. "Do you need an ambulance? I can't even drive you to the hospital!"

"Steve, relax! It's just an expression!" He closed his eyes and exhaled. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you."

"No, it's fine. I should really be reading those documents on today's slang that Miss Lewis wrote up for me." He shook his head.

"Hm. Do you mind if I take a look at those before you dive in?" Natasha liked Darcy, but she couldn't be sure that the girl wouldn't slip in something less-than-factual for a laugh. She'd once taught Thor that Agent Coulson's nickname was "El Diablo"**, which he'd called Coulson (who was partly confused, partly too polite to correct him) for a whole week thinking it meant 'Noble Warrior". Fury had suspended Darcy for two weeks for that. "Yeah, let me just look at those right now."

* * *

*Steve and Natasha watched _You Can't Take It With You_.

**The idea of Thor enthusiastically calling Coulson "El Diablo" cracked me up for some reason.


	4. Steve Flirts With Old Ladies

Sorry this is going up so late today-I had it queued up but it slipped my mind! Once again, you guys are overwhelming me with your awesome feedback! Thank you all for your observations about Steve (I know he's sheepish, but don't worry, he'll get more comfortable as the mission wears on!), and for your encouragement.

The Fan of the Week is Audrey, who has basically established herself as my #1 fan thus far, which makes her pretty amazing in my book. _Merci beaucoup_, Audrey for your enjoyment and your comments!

This chapter is pretty short, but there's an extra-long one coming tomorrow, so stay tuned!

-theredspool

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The Chicago morning dawned sunny. Natasha was wide-awake mere seconds before her alarm rang, and she threw off the covers immediately. She stuck her head out into the living room and spied Steve squeezed onto the comically small couch. He was already awake and reading a magazine. He lifted his head back on the couch so he was looking at her upside-down. "Good morning." He sat up quickly and ran a hand through his hair. "I guess this is the big day?"

"I guess it is," she agreed. "Do you want some breakfast? There's a diner on the corner."

"That sounds great. Um, let me just get dressed," he paused, looking at Natasha, who was lingering in the doorway.

"Oh. I'm sorry! I'll just make some coffee. You go ahead. Take your time," She smiled and shuffled off into the kitchen. She thought she saw him glance down at her bottom in her light pink shorts, but she couldn't be sure. _He's still human,_ her brain reminded her.

A half hour later they were in the diner, a charming little hole in the wall where the waitresses still wore uniforms. Their elderly waitress had taken a liking to Steve immediately because he said 'please' and 'thank you' and called her 'ma'am'. "Good for an old lady's heart," she'd told him with a wink.

"I'm not sure who you're talking about, Jean," he'd replied grinning. "I don't see any old ladies here." Natasha wondered if Steve could only be comfortable talking with women who were his ACTUAL age. _It won't do much for his sex life_, she mused.

"You and your lovely wife have a great day, now!" Jean called as they walked out. They waved, and Natasha slipped her hand into Steve's. "More convincing," she reminded him, and turned back to wave once more.

They split up after breakfast-Natasha trailed the subject and Steve staked out at his apartment. They kept contact by earpiece and a tiny camera hidden in Natasha's-that is, _Ellie's_-glasses.

"How come you get to do the fun stuff and I get to sit here in a parked car all day?" Steve complained mildly.

"Because," Natasha said as subtly as she could. "You're still learning. You'll get to do fun stuff tonight, okay? But first you have to _observe_."

"I can't even see you! I can only see what you see."

"And that says a lot. Pay attention!"

"...why are you following from so far away? What if you lose him?"

"I won't. I don't want him to see me! And stop talking to me. I shouldn't be moving my mouth."

"Then_ you_ stop talking to _me._" His defiance was tinged with humor; he stayed quiet after that. _He's obedient, at least._

The target wasn't terribly interesting on the surface-a research scientist who conducted studies on poor UChicago students who would do just about anything to their brains for ten bucks an hour. Sleep studies, brain scans, and so on. But on his off time...well, it's always the quiet ones.

After a few hours of watching the good Doctor order and eat a sandwich and browse the Science Fantasy section of Barnes and Noble, Natasha was starting to feel her patience wear. "You'd think he'd be getting up to something good and dastardly by now."

"Maybe it's his day off," Steve suggested. "Besides, it's already five...we need to get back and change before dinner tonight. We know where he'll be-don't exhaust yourself just watching him run pointless errands."

"You're dying to get out of that car, aren't you?"

"Yes. _PLEASE_ get back here."

"Ha, I'll be right there."


	5. The Flare of a Cigarette

Hey guys! Sorry for the delay-I have a friend visiting me this weekend and I've been busy entertaining! Here's a new update. I think you'll like this one. ;) Don't forget to leave your feedback in a review!

* * *

Prior intelligence had confirmed the subject's weekly routine, and Wednesday night dinner was a down-to-the-minute affair. He always ate the same thing at the same casual dining restaurant. And, until recently, he had always been alone. It was time to ID his dinner companion.

Natasha dressed in Ellie's clothes-a girlish blue dress and cardigan that Natasha would _never_ wear, and a pair of mary janes. She emerged from the bathroom to see Steve was decked out as Alex in a collared shirt, light blue sweater and tan coat. "We match," she smiled. "But you should untuck your shirt. You're a _dude_, remember?"

He obeyed, albeit hesitantly. "This is _not_ appropriate for dinner. _You_ look great! You get to wear a pretty dress and I get to look like a slob."

"You don't look like a slob! Alex does. Besides, this dress is awful!" She shrugged. "But it's just a costume. Roll with it. Now come on, it's time."

They drove to the restaurant in near silence. As they parked, Natasha noticed Steve's determined expression. "What's the prerogative?"

He looked at her for a long moment. "Get a visual on the target's dinner partner and suspected accomplice. Plant a tracking device on the suspects and acquire 24 hour surveillance. Report back to HQ."

Natasha nodded. "Good. The rest is just dinner."

He swallowed and tried to smile.

"You can do this."

Inside, Natasha chose a booth-she could see out of the front windows of the restaurant, Steve could hold down the whole back of the restaurant, including bathrooms. It was a great spot, and no sooner than they sat down, the subject entered, right on time. He sat by the window and pulled out his cell phone, not bothering with the menu.

It was getting darker, and Natasha spotted the flare of a cigarette outside of the window.

_No. No way._

"Um, Alex, sweetie. I just realized I forgot something in the car. Why don't you go ahead and order for me. Anything but shellfish. Thanks love!" Steve looked startled-this wasn't how the evening was supposed to go.

_You can do this, _she urged him in her mind.

He smiled. "Sure thing, sweet pea."

_Good boy. _Natasha climbed out of the booth and strode past the subject, who took no notice of her.

The man with the cigarette lounged against the brick wall of the restaurant. She walked right by him and turned down the alley nearby. She crossed her arms, mouth hardening into a line. Clint sauntered casually around the corner a few moments later and offered her the pack. She took one and snatched the proffered lighter. "Are you fucking kidding me, Clint? What the hell are you doing here? Are you trying to fuck our whole mission right now?"

Clint at least had the grace to look ashamed for a moment before resuming his confidence. "I wanted to watch out for you." The smoke floated thickly between them, obscuring most of his face.

"I have a _partner_ for that, Clint-"

"Yeah, and he's a novice. He wouldn't have a goddamn clue what to do without his pretty shield, Tasha."

"Don't call me that," she exhaled sharply. "_I'm _still undercover and following orders. I'm going to have to tell Fury about this, you know..." She took one last drag and handed the end back to him. "And you shouldn't say that about..._Alex_. He's a good partner. _And he listens._"

Clint didn't say anything, just stubbed out his own cigarette and put hers between his lips.

"So you'll leave? What did you even _tell _Fury? Or are you AWOL? You know what, I don't even want to know. Just get the hell out of here, okay?" He shrugged and scratched the back of his neck. Natasha felt a twinge of _something_ in her gut, and she didn't like it. "Look," she started, more gently. "I really appreciate that you care enough about me to make sure I'm okay. But I'm a big girl, and I definitely know what I'm doing. You know that better than anyone. Okay?" She paused momentarily, looking for any indication, but he just turned away.

She narrowed her eyes and started out of the alley. _Moody little jerk,_ she groused. Clint was hard to pin down sometimes. He was a great marksman and a great partner, but he was a by-and-large a loner for a reason.

Steve looked strained when she sat down. "Find what you were looking for?"

Natasha composed her face into an impassive mask. "We have to eat somewhere else tonight, sweetie. Somewhere a little more private-we have something to discuss."

"But-" Steve stopped himself and nodded. "Okay. Maybe we can come back next week?"

"We'll have to," Natasha gritted her teeth. Clint really had to pick that moment to make himself known? He could've kept out of sight easily. Why had he wanted her to notice him? "Trust me, I'm as disappointed as you." She stood to leave.

"Shouldn't we tell someone-?"

But Natasha didn't turn back around. The subject was still alone. _Damn. _They could've gotten a visual on the accomplice, at least. She glanced around outside, but she couldn't see Clint. _That doesn't mean he can't see me._

Steve's hand rested gently on her shoulder. She tensed, but he left it there. "Ready, Ellie?"

"Yeah." She linked her arm through his and pulled him along to the car. "Let's just go. We gotta talk."

~

"I don't understand...Clint's one of us! Why would he do something that could compromise a mission?" Steve looked nearly scandalized.

Natasha paced the living room like a caged tiger. "I'm not sure. But that's whatever-I don't think he'll _interfere_; I'm just frustrated that he chose such a terrible moment. He might not have known-I didn't fill him in on the details of the mission, after all."

"You told him about the mission? Natasha, that was classified!"

"And Clint has the same security clearance as us," Natasha paused and looked Steve dead in the eye. "I trust Clint with my life, and I don't see any reason to keep something like this from him. We're still in the very early stages of this mission. We didn't even plan to grab the target for another three months! I'm just frustrated that we'll essentially be waiting around for another week."

Steve frowned. "Okay. If you trust him, I trust him. But I'm definitely not looking forward to waiting around in that car all day-"

A buzz at the door interrupted them. Natasha and Steve immediately tensed, and Natasha crept soundlessly to the peep hole. A middle-aged woman holding a cake was standing there.

She glanced back at Steve, who was braced at the edge of the couch. She motioned him over and mouthed, _It's okay._

She fixed on a smile and opened the door. "Hello?" she said, in a cheerful voice very unlike her own. She saw Steve double-take out of the corner of her eye. "Can we help you?"

"Hello! I'm Melanie, your neighbor across the hall. I saw you two coming in yesterday and figured you were new! I wanted to welcome you to the building and invite you to a little neighborly meeting we do once a month to talk about the rooftop garden and a few other things!"

Melanie was clearly harmless. Natasha relaxed and traded a relieved smile with Steve. "That sounds just lovely, Melanie. I'm Ellie, and this is my husband Alex." Steve stepped dutifully forward (_Is there anything he doesn't do dutifully?_ Natasha wondered.) and shook Melanie's hand. "Did you make that gorgeous cake?"

By the time they had gotten rid of Melanie, Natasha's face hurt from smiling. "Cut me some of that cake, will you?"

A few minutes later, Steve emerged with an enormous slice of chocolate cake for her, and an even bigger one for himself.

"So...you're allergic to shellfish?"

Natasha looked up, mouth full of cake. "Wha?"

"At the restaurant, you said no shellfish. I know that was Ellie talking, but the best lies have some truth in them, don't they?" Steve stuffed a massive forkful of cake into his mouth and shrugged.

Natasha was impressed. He was paying attention. "Yeah, I am. An old boyfriend of mine used to tease me about not being able to eat oysters, so-" she stopped short. "Y'know, never mind." She didn't really want to be the one to introduce Steve to the concept of an aphrodisiac at this point. "What about you?"

"None now, but when I was a kid I was allergic to milk and a bunch of other things...I don't really remember now," he lifted the plate happily. "I don't mind! I can eat this cake now!"

Natasha smiled. "How do you stay so positive all the time?"

Steve's smile faltered a little, and he shrugged his big shoulders. "I guess I just try to remember that despite it all, I'm alive. And I have a pretty amazing opportunity to work with pretty amazing people." He smiled at Natasha, who nodded her thanks. "I mean, I get low sometimes...but it definitely helps when I get the chance to smash some bad guy's face in."

Natasha laughed. A few moments of silence passed. "Look, Natasha. I wanted to tell you that it means a lot to me that you're helping me. It's been hard for me to get acclimated, and now I have an important duty to perform...well, I couldn't do it without help. So thanks."

He was disarming in that moment. She reached over and patted Steve's knee, unsure of what to say. He smiled brightly, and she couldn't help but smile back. After a few seconds, Natasha realized her hand was still on his knee. So did Steve.

"So, um...I'll take your plate?" Steve reached out, avoiding her eyes.

"Yes, thank you," Natasha replied smoothly as his shoulder touched hers. He paused, his face near hers, and inhaled gently.

"Natasha?"

"...yes?" _If he's trying something_...well. Actually, she wasn't sure what she would do.

"Have you been smoking?"

"Oh! Ha-ha," Natasha laughed, feeling silly. "Um, yes, when I saw Clint. He's really the only one I ever really do it with. _Smoke_, I mean."

Steve pulled back, looking serious. "I have a lot of doctors now, Natasha, and a lot of people updating me on this century. I know how bad smoking is now. You shouldn't put yourself in danger like that."

Natasha smiled at his earnestness. "Steve, I put my life on the line every day. I don't think one cigarette a month is going to do me any more harm."

Steve frowned, momentarily outargued. "Well...you don't need any more danger in your life then! I don't need any more of my friends doing something that's going to get them killed!" His face had gone from earnest to tense and scared, eyes pleading.

"Whoa, Steve. Hold on," Natasha rubbed his back soothingly. "I'm sorry. I didn't intend to resurrect any unpleasant memories for you. I know how bad that can be." She did know, and she would never knowingly do it to anyone else-especially someone like Steve, who never asked for any of this. "Look, I promise, okay? No more smoking. Look at you, watching my back like a pro already, hm?" She nudged him and smiled.

Steve smiled and relaxed, looking sheepish. "I'm sorry, Natasha. I shouldn't be telling you what to do. You've been a really great teacher."

"Aw, thanks, Steve," She nudged him again with her shoulder and stood. "Wanna watch a movie? We've got a long week ahead of us. Heard of _Singin' In the Rain_ yet?"


	6. Clint Is A Marksman

Hi everyone! Sorry for the slow update-I had a friend visiting and have been working on some writing for my actual job. From here on out updates will probably be a little slower, I'm afraid, but I'll do my best to get stuff out to you ASAP! Enjoy!

* * *

Clint watched from the rooftop opposite with a sniper's scope.

Clint wasn't jealous, per se. He was protective of Natasha-after all, he'd been the one to get her out of The Business in the first place. Well, that was an overstatement; she was simply giving her Business to another group now. _Killing only Bad Guys now,_ Clint thought. Clint _hoped_, anyway. He had to remind himself from time to time that S.H.I.E.L.D. truly are The Good Guys. Natasha had been properly convinced since she joined-she had an almost unfailing respect for authority. Especially an authority that was willing to forgive her for her many sins. _It might be buried deep within her, but that Eastern Orthodoxy is still there,_ Clint mused.

They were watching_ Singin' In The Rain_. Clint had watched that with Natasha, too, and the memory didn't make him feel any less territorial. They were smiling and laughing and Natasha looked comfortable in a way Clint had only seen around himself. He supposed he should be pleased that Natasha was making friends where there had only been co-workers before.

Through the window, Rogers was watching Natasha watch the movie. She was singing along to 'Good Morning' and doing a silly, jiggling dance in her seat. Rogers was laughing, and when Tasha turned and noticed, she slapped him on the shoulder. Not hard, Clint noticed. It was a playful slap, and Clint felt his neck get hot with annoyance.

He lit a cigarette and watched the smoke curl up into the night. He didn't really want to watch anymore. He walked around the rooftop, peering across the landscape of jagged buildings jutting against the sky. Clint liked Chicago-he'd visited a few times in his career, and had always relished any chance he got to come back (especially when the visit included genuine Chicago pizza).

He finished his cigarette and flicked the butt over the side of the building. It landed squarely in the trash can several dozen feet below. Aim was second nature for Clint: level the arrow (or the cigarette end, in this case), release, and hit. Methodical, mathematical, physical. A good marksman at a disadvantage can over-correct to make any shot, and Clint was a damn good marksman.

He turned back to the window raised the scope again. Natasha laying on her side, head cushioned on Steve's hip. She was gesturing with a finger at the screen; Clint saw Cyd Charisse gliding around sultrily. This was Natasha's favorite part, he knew. She loved to dance, and she loved to watch good dancing. Clint glanced at Steve, who had his arm up on the back of the couch and was listening intently to whatever Natasha was pointing out.

Clint looked again at Natasha's drowsy, smiling face for a long moment, then pocketed the scope and headed for the fire escape.

Maybe Chicago wasn't so great after all.


	7. The Visual

Thank you all for your patience. Alongside this, I've been working on a novel-length Harry Potter fic that I want to complete before posting, so that's taken up a ton of my time. Please enjoy this offering in the meantime, and don't forget to review! I love hearing your feedback.

* * *

When Wednesday came again, Natasha had to force herself not to call HQ to report Clint—or check up on him. Not that they would be able to track him if he hadn't gone back to Fury—he had learned how to throw the signal ages ago. Naturally, so had Natasha, but she had faith where Clint didn't. If your boss knew where you were, they could keep you safe. They could come get you if you were in trouble. Clint did not place his trust in his employers so completely. She wondered if he'd stayed in the city—he liked Chicago, she remembered that. He could easily find a place to crash for the time being. It had been a whole week since she'd seen him, but that didn't mean he couldn't see her.

Steve, on the other hand, had been a steady, constant presence. She liked him—he was friendly, considerate, respectful to a fault, and painfully good-natured. Once she'd seen him shoo a spider out the window—it was as if it didn't even occur to him to smash it. Perhaps Natasha had learned to solve too many problems with violence…

"Natasha? Natasha, are you okay?"

"What? Oh," Natasha roused herself from her daze. "Totally fine. You ready?" Steve had gotten marginally more comfortable in his modern clothing, though he still hated maintaining stubble and bedhead. _It isn't proper_, he insisted. _It's not respectful_. She smiled warmly at his mussed hair, and he blushed deeply.

"Is it that bad? I'm going to comb it—"

"No, no, Steve," Natasha laughed, catching his hand. "It looks fine. You blend in perfectly. Stop worrying about it." She checked her watch. "We should get going." She released Steve's hand sheepishly and slid on Ellie's cardigan.

Steve took her hand again after she locked the apartment behind them. "More convincing," he smiled, and nodded down the hall at Melanie, who was leading her tiny dog back into her place. "Evening, Melanie!"

"Oh, hello, Alex!" Melanie's soft, lined face stretched into an excited smile. Natasha rolled her eyes inwardly—Steve was the natural favorite when it came to older women. "Don't you two look like a picture! Where are you off to?"

"Dinner," Natasha cut in, with what she hoped was a winning smile. "We're trying that restaurant by the library."

Melanie leaned down to pick up the squirming white puppy and squinted up at the ceiling in thought. "Not sure if I've been to that one. You'll have to tell me how it is! Maybe you both can swing by for dessert and coffee sometime this week and we can catch up!"

"That would be lovely, Melanie," Steve seemed genuinely interested, which annoyed Natasha slightly. Obviously it was good to be friendly, but it was way more important to focus on the mission. Plus, Melanie was painfully boring, and slightly embarrassing, as any aging hippie was. But Natasha fixed on a smile, and nodded a good-natured farewell.

"Was that wrong?" Steve wondered as they walked to the car. "Should I have said no?"

"Not necessarily," Natasha allowed. "But professional prerogative aside, she is not much fun to be around."

"Free cake, though," Steve reasoned.

Natasha considered this and nodded. "Good point."

The restaurant was busier tonight—this time they secured a two-top right by the window, next to the table where the Doctor typically sat. There was a 'reserved' card on it; that was a good sign.

They were nursing bowls of corn chowder when the bell on the door jingled. Steve's shoulders tensed. _He'll learn,_ she thought. Natasha swallowed a spoonful and sat back in her chair.

It was definitely him: rumpled, grey-haired, and wearing thick, wire-rimmed glasses. He settled into his usual chair, back-to-back with Steve. _Perfect,_ Natasha thought, loading her spoon. _Now let's get that visual._

The door swing open again. _Jingle, jingle._ Natasha's mouth would've dropped open if it hadn't been full of hot soup.

Clint sauntered in wearing a suit, and without a second glance at Natasha, he grinned broadly at the target, reaching out his hand for a shake. "Doctor! I've heard so much about you. It's _so_ good to finally meet you…"


	8. Was, Wasn't

This is a very short chapter, I know! I recently started a brand new podcast project with a good friend of mine, and that-plus other writing and actual work-has been absorbing me. Don't worry, I'm not abandoning this story! Sit tight, and thanks to all of you for the words of encouragement and support. You're amazing!

* * *

They'd had to sneak Clint in through the window—they didn't want to risk Melanie seeing him.

"Why are you mad? I'm _helping_ you-I put a tracking device on his car last week, I set up a whole undercover persona to get close to him. He trusts me. I made your job easier!" Clint was lounging easily in the armchair, his feet up on the coffee table in Alex and Ellie's apartment. He had ditched his suit jacket and tie.

"Clint, you're interfering!" Natasha was admittedly impressed—and slightly embarrassed—that Clint had attained a much better angle so quickly, but this wasn't the time to congratulate him for working outside of the established order. Especially if he stepped on her toes in the process.

"Not if I was assigned here!"

That gave Natasha pause. "Assigned?" Had Fury decided that she wasn't up to the challenge of teaching Steve and completing a mission at the same time?

'Well," Clint rolled one muscular shoulder. "I had myself placed here. I pitched the gameplan myself."

"So you just decided to cut in and complete the mission for me? What the—"

"Excuse me," Steve interrupted, looking serious. "This was my mission too, and I don't really appreciate being left out like I'm a kid listening to Mom and Dad fight it out, okay?"

Natasha inhaled, trying to control her temper. Steve was right, of course—this had been a learning opportunity that Clint had cheated Steve out of. "Exactly! Steve was training! Were you having some kind of macho crisis, Clint? Is that what this is about?"

For an instant, something like real hurt flitted across Clint's face, but it was promptly replaced by a stony expression. "I'm so sorry that my great idea and execution got in the way of your little lesson. My sincerest apologies." He offered Steve a mocking bow and turned on his heel, stalking away into the kitchen.

Steve turned to Natasha; his open, handsome face was puzzled. "What's his problem?" he murmured, shrugging his massive shoulders. "Did I do something?"

"You didn't kiss his ass," Natasha rolled her eyes. "I just don't understand why he couldn't trust me to handle this on my own. Sure, he's been protective of me in the past, but he's never interfered this blatantly." She watched the kitchen doorway, her arms crossed tightly. "He doesn't even _like_ espionage."

"No," Steve agreed, walking toward the kitchen. "But I think I know what he _does_ like." The kitchen window was open, the curtains flapping in the evening breeze. Clint was nowhere to be seen. "Or who."

Natasha frowned. "What? I—I don't—it's not—" It wasn't.

Was it?


	9. Partners

Sorry for the delay-I think you guys will really enjoy Natasha's extended take on the revelations of the previous chapter. Read, review, and enjoy! You guys are amazing!

* * *

Days passed with no sign of Clint. If she didn't know better, Natasha would be inclined to believe he had headed back to base. But she hadn't gotten to the top of her (very particular) field for nothing. He had to be lurking. Plus, he had an undercover mission going on—whatever his personal feelings were, he wasn't stupid enough to cut that very important tie.

_Personal feelings,_ Natasha thought. She reflected that she and Clint were close, sure, and he was handsome and capable and fun to be around. He had been her first real friend. _Just a friend?_ A little voice inside her wondered. She'd thought so, but now Steve's implication was making her stomach twist. Was it nerves? Excitement? Did she want to be wanted?

She had expected the chemistry with Steve—after all, it was just the two of them in close quarters for several days. They only had each other; a closeness was bound to be forged.

Her mind flashed briefly, but intensely, to Budapest. It had been a very similar circumstance, she recalled. The two of them isolated from the rest of the detail, relying only on each other for months. On second thought, she supposed it wasn't all that similar. She and Steve weren't in any real danger—no one was trying to shoot her in the street as they had tried in Hungary. Clint had her back then.

She watched Steve wash the dishes. He didn't like to use the dishwasher. She suspected the small, homey tasks occupied and calmed his mind. She felt the same way about needlepoint, a fact she had only revealed to Clint upon pain of death. He had laughed for days.

Steve glanced over his shoulder and caught her eye. "I could practically feel that stare. Everything okay?" He tossed a rag over one muscular shoulder and leaned a hip on the counter. She didn't answer right away, just stared into his handsome face. He looked good with scruff. God, he and Clint couldn't be more different, apart from the fact that they were both introverts. She wondered what Steve thought about Clint's feelings—all he'd voiced were his suspicions.

"Do you think—" Natasha began, before she'd thought it through. "Never mind. Forget it."

"Is this about Clint?" Steve took the seat opposite Natasha at the small kitchen table. "About what I said?"

"…Sort of," Natasha allowed, folding her hands in front of her. "Do you think—well, _what_ do you think?" For an absurd moment, Natasha hoped Steve was jealous, but she beat that stupid impulse down.

Steve wrinkled his brow and sat back, staring searchingly into the corner where the ceiling met the wall. "I don't really know. I mean, it's not any wonder he'd be sweet on you. You're—you know." He cleared his throat awkwardly.

Natasha glanced quickly down at her folded hands, her cheeks warm.

"What I don't understand is how he let his feelings control how he handled his work. I mean, I understand the impulse to drop everything for the person you lo—you care about," he paused here, his jaw set. "_But._ But there's a world out there that's way bigger than you. You have to do your duty to serve a bigger cause," He met Natasha's eyes and smiled wanly. "No matter how worthy the woman is."

Natasha stared back. Her stomach hadn't stopped twisting, but she wasn't sure what the cause was anymore. "Thank you, Steve."

His smile widened, and he reached out to cover her folded hands with one of his. "Any time, partner."


	10. The Marrying Kind

In honor of Memorial Day, a chapter from the perspective of our favorite Super Soldier! Thank you all for your continued support and input! I can't even believe there's ten chapters of this already!

Hope you're all having a lovely weekend. Enjoy!

* * *

When Steve awoke the next day, he had made a decision.

Clint had not reappeared to apologize. It didn't take a super-soldier to divine that he was probably exploiting the alliance he had formed with the good Doctor—perhaps Clint felt that acing the mission would make up for his less-than-gentlemanly behavior when it came to Natasha.

Steve hadn't intended to wedge himself into a partnership's like Clint and Natasha's. He had sensed the closeness there, and kept an appropriate distance. But how was he supposed to keep his distance when she was sleeping in the next room? Was Clint blaming him for being assigned this mission?

Thus, the decision was made: he would no longer let Clint's hurt feelings or over-the-top shenanigans get in the way of his training, his duty, or his feelings for N—

Wait a moment. He didn't mean _feelings_, feelings. Just, you know, normal feelings—the kind that any respectable officer would have for his talented, capable, beautiful, _bendy_—

_That's enough of that, soldier!_ He had never been the kind of soldier that passed around penny dreadfuls or collected pinups for the walls of his tent (truth be told, no one ever got friendly enough with Cap to offer, but that was beside the point). He had always been consumed with his responsibilities as Captain America and, when he had the time, with his interest in Peggy.

He felt oddly guilty about that, as if he was letting Peggy down somehow by finding another woman attractive. He was seventy years late as it is; he hardly imagined Penny—who was easily ninety by now—would take it as a slight that a girl his own age had caught his eye.

But Natasha wasn't really his age, was she? And he wasn't hers.

Steve sighed and rolled off the too-small couch, stretching his back. Like any strapping, young-looking man would, Steve had pondered about what his life would be like in this time. Life apart from missions and spying and alien invaders, that is. Maybe he'd have a wife—even children. He knew that his procedure hadn't negatively affected his fertility. (If anything, he was sure it had been enhanced.)

He walked to the bathroom and met the young face in the mirror. He suspected Natasha wasn't really the marrying kind, but he couldn't help but imagine how closely life would parallel their stay here in Chicago. They'd be sharing one room, of course—Steve blushed mildly and almost missed his toothbrush attempting to apply toothpaste. He would get up first and make eggs. She would rise soon after and use the bathroom first, then brew the coffee. They'd go to headquarters and have lunch in the commissary together. After work they'd get dinner from their favorite place down the street, and watch old movies before bed.

Steve spat in the sink and shook his head. He was getting quite ahead of himself, but it was nice to think about, at least.

A knock on the door jolted him out of his reverie. Natasha's voice was muffled by the door: "Hey, are you almost done in there? I have a surprise for you!"

That certainly didn't make it any easier. "Yeah, I'll be right out." _Honey,_ he added quietly, in his thoughts.


	11. Said and Unsaid

I know, I know! It's been positively ages. This chapter has been in the works for a while, but I recently took a ten-day long trip to LeakyCon in Portland, then to Southern California, so it was delayed in completion. But here it is now! Please read, review, and enjoy. (I think you'll especially enjoy this one.)

* * *

After using the bathroom and brushing her teeth, Natasha returned to find a text notification on her duty phone:

_Come out to the roof._

Her stomach swooped, but she forced herself to roll her eyes. This was typical Barton behavior: brooding, mysterious, somewhat romantic, and just a touch domineering.

"I believe you made a mention of a surprise?"

Natasha started. Steve was standing awkwardly in the doorway, looking fixedly at Natasha's left ear.

"Oh—right." Natasha dropped her phone on the bed and slid past Steve. "I know you're a big fan of the ones at the diner, but I thought it might be nice if we made them here for a change." She opened the refrigerator door with a flourish and removed a brimming bowl of batter. "Pancakes!"

Steve's stiff expression relaxed into a broad grin. "Wow. That's real nice of you, Natasha. Thank you." He reached out to touch her arm, but she pulled him into a hug instead. After a long moment, they pulled away and Steve cleared his throat. "I guess we'd better get started."

Clint's text flashed through her mind. "Oh, yes. But, um. I need to run out for a minute. To the roof."

"The…roof?"

"Yeah…Clint finally got in touch with me." She opened the wide kitchen window and stepped out into the fire escape.

"He's _here?_ Now?" Something like anger coiled briefly in Steve's eyes. "Tell him to use the front door next time."

Natasha smiled. "I'll do my best. Five minutes."

It was overcast, but bright. The sky was white as milk.

"Took you long enough. Didn't they teach you to react a bit faster back in the old country?" Clint was leaning casually against the brick, picking his fingernails.

Natasha said nothing—she was sure he had more to say.

"Pancakes, huh?"

"It's not polite to eavesdrop," Natasha said, with more than a touch of irony. They were spies, after all.

Clint smiled, his eyes crinkling pleasantly, and shrugged. "Very nice set-up you have here. _Domestic._"

Natasha pursed her lips and crossed her arms. She could let him run himself down; let him talk himself out about whatever ego problem he was having.

"I never pegged you for the domestic type, Tash. You're more of a…career woman." He scratched his head thoughtfully. He studied her for a moment, head tilted. "Tasha. Look at us. Have we ever acted this way with each other?"

He was right—she had never felt this strange distance. For years now, she had always been able share any part of herself with him.

"I apologize," he said suddenly, walking towards her, careful to stop at a respectful distance. "I've been an idiot."

She remained silent, but gave a tiny nod of agreement. She felt her shoulders relax slightly.

"I've been a _jealous_ idiot." He gave her a slightly pleading look, like a child asking forgiveness for stealing a cookie he had already been denied. "It was…harder than I expected, seeing you with another partner. It's stupid, I know. You're a person. Not a toy to be fighting over."

He turned away from her and shielded his eyes from the glare of the bright sky, then turned back. He started a sentence many times over, but couldn't seem to finish it. He approached her, untangled her crossed arms, and took both of her hands in his. "I've just never been close to someone the way I've been close to you. And vice-versa, I think," he added softly, meeting her eyes.

Again, he was right. It was true. There was no comparison. She had lived with Steve for a few short weeks. She and Clint had been_ partners_ far longer. She opened her mouth to reply, but couldn't seem to find her voice. She coughed awkwardly, but didn't break the gaze.

He just smiled again, and squeezed her hands. It was amazing, the things they didn't have to say. Or the things they avoided saying—Natasha wasn't sure which it was yet. Clint's face hovered closer to hers—

"Is everything all right?"

Darling Steve, with the jaw of stone and the edge of steel in his voice. He'd probably thought he was protecting her. Maybe he was.


	12. Forgive or Forget

I want you all to know that I haven't forgot about you! I intended to post before I left for my two-week trip to Europe that I just returned from, but I hadn't completed this chapter yet. Plus, I have a much longer, more complex fic in the works, and I've also started writing my own novel. And that's on top of the writing I do professionally! (Think I give myself too much to do?)

But here is an update! Please enjoy and review, and I'll do my best to keep updates coming as regularly as I can. :)

* * *

Why had he done that?

Both the spying _and_ the interrupting.

The spying was coming more easily now—it had not been hard to creep up the fire escape after Natasha and wait just out of sight, although he doubted they'd have noticed him had he been standing there in full Captain America regalia.

They'd been staring deeply into one another's eyes (he knew it sounded clichéd and cheesy, but it was true). He was still holding her hands gently in his, standing close. Now, both of their gazes were trained on him. Clint looked smugly amused; Natasha looked guilty.

That surprised him a little. If anything, Steve was the one who should feel like the intruder, the one who had made a misstep.

"Impeccable timing as usual, Captain," Clint smiled thinly, without turning from Natasha. He drew his hands back from hers and slid them into his pockets, but he did not widen the distance between them. "I think we'll have to resume this conversation another time."

Natasha nodded, trapped between the two stares. She rallied as quickly as she could. "You have my number."

"You bet I do," Clint grinned. "Go on—I'm sure the pancakes are getting cold without you."

She flushed slightly, but slipped by him with as much dignity as she could muster (which was quite a lot). She passed Steve without a word and disappeared down the ladder.

After a few awkward moments of silence, Steve turned to descend as well.

"Wait, wait," Clint smiled, approaching the ladder. "This is pretty dumb, huh?"

"Which part?"

"The part where you and I are acting weird over Natasha."

"Oh. That part." Steve was not used to this kind of conversation. Bucky was the one who fought over girls, and those "discussions" usually ended with a punch in the jaw. Thankfully, this talk didn't seem to be going in that direction.

"We both respect her, and I like to think we respect each other."

Steve nodded, staring resolutely at Clint's hairline..

"Great. I think we can get on with this job like civilized gentlemen, can't we?"

_I've _been _getting on with the job. _And Steve felt a little guilty for thinking it, but he expected he knew what it meant to be a civilized gentleman more than Clint did.

"I guess I'll be off," Clint smirked, brushing past Steve to start his descent down the side of the building.

"Feel free to use the door next time," Steve added, turning. He had meant for it to be a joke, to break the tension, but it came out stiffly.

Clint laughed, but said nothing else. When Steve finally looked over the edge, Clint was nowhere to be seen.

Inside, the pancakes were already cooking. He perched in the window, watching her flip them and expose the golden surface.

"Butter or syrup?" she asked, not looking at him.

"Both."

Her mouth twitched with amusement and, after a moment, she glanced up at him. He smiled wanly back and started gathering plates and forks. All was forgiven.


	13. The Good Guys

Can you guys even believe it?! Two updates in one week! Special thanks to the Anon who recently commented on every single chapter-that was very encouraging, and I appreciated your comments. As for the people asking if this is a Stasha or Clintasha story-what's the fun in telling? What do you predict?

Enjoy this peek into Clint's psyche, and I'll see you at the next update!

* * *

Clint couldn't decide if he was amused or threatened by Rogers' appearance on the roof. He was annoyed, certainly. He had been very close to—well, a moment that had been building between him and Natasha for a long time.

He scanned the skyline from his spot on the rooftop next to Natasha's apartment building. He supposed he was showing that he was threatened by continuing to look after her from a distance, but what she didn't know wouldn't hurt her. Or him, for that matter.

He'd had enough discipline to stay away for the rest of the day—he hardly wanted to sit around watching Tasha and Captain Cleft-chin eat pancakes and play footsie.

Perhaps foolishly, Clint considered the comparison: Rogers was buff, certainly, and handsome—in a pretty, boy-scout kind of way. Was that the kind of thing Natasha liked? He recalled an offhand exchange between Tasha and Tony, who was trying to get buddy-buddy with her again. (Tony should've known better than to try that—Natasha respected Tony, of course, but she would not forget her time as his assistant quickly.)

"Come on, red," Tony teased. "We all know the ladies love a bad boy."

"And If the lady has had enough of the bad boys?" she replied, the ghost of a smile on her lips.

"Impossible." Tony waved a hand dismissively. He flashed a grin at Pepper, who rolled her eyes good-naturedly.

Natasha had just shrugged. Clint has not thought much of it at the time—after all, he was a Good Guy, too, right? But he couldn't help but allow a tendril of doubt pierce his thoughts: _Not compared to him._

Rogers was disgustingly good. Help-old-ladies-across-the-street good. Stand-up-when-ladies-leave-the-table good. It was very annoying, and not a little worrisome. Clint had always thought he and Natasha were a natural pair. No supernatural powers, supernatural genius or supernatural wealth. Just pure skill, honed for years against the grain of combat, worked to a sharp point that speared them both.

And Budapest.

Clint thought far too often of Budapest. Of hot asphalt making the air ripple, and the dark motel room where he and Natasha had hidden out for weeks before the standoff. Close quarters, her in the tight black tank top that grew blacker with summer sweat. They had hardly known each other then, dancing awkwardly around the place, trying not to touch, facing opposite walls when they went to sleep in the twin beds.

But then he turned over, and was surprised to find her staring back at him. He supposed they'd both gone too long without proper human contact. Everything fell into place in a blur of red hair and bullets: by the end of it, all he knew was that he had a best friend.

_You still do, _the charitable side of himself reminded him. _She still loves you and trusts you—well, at least she did before you showed up here without warning and insinuated yourself into her mission._

He shook his head and turned to her window. They were going over files together on the sofa. Natasha was laser-focused, her eyes scanning the folder in front of her. She was talking, and Rogers was listening intently, watching—no, _studying_ her face. Clint saw Natasha's mouth stop moving and, after a long pause, she turned to meet Cap's eyes. Rogers' cheeks went pink.

"I can't believe it," Clint said aloud. "He goddamn _blushed_."

Natasha had turned back to the folder, but she was smiling a tiny smile. A secret smile. Rogers had not looked away, even though his blush was deepening and spreading down his thick neck.

Clint automatically reached for his cigarettes. He felt…strangely at ease, which unnerved him. Clint would prefer to be in there with her, but if she had to fall for someone else…well, he didn't mind so much if it was for a Good Guy.

* * *

Thanks for your continued support! Drop me a comment with your thoughts and predictions. You guys rock!


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